


Excercises In Futility

by karuvapatta



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Divorce, F/M, One Shot Collection, Organized Crime, Unhealthy Relationships, Women in Refrigerators, actually only one woman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-09 22:46:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14725032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karuvapatta/pseuds/karuvapatta
Summary: Five times Fire Lord Ozai managed to screw up his own life.





	1. Mafia AU

**Author's Note:**

> So Sky_kiss and I started talking about our most angst-y headcanons and fic ideas, and, uh. We ended up with this weird little contest when we have five prompts and write some angst for each of them :D The point is, of course, to make Ozai suffer for our collective amusement. Unfortunately, there's some collateral damage. Mostly towards Ursa.
> 
> There will be five chapters, probably unrelated to one another. This is a work in progress.
> 
> You can read Sky_kiss's entries **[here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14708973/chapters/33992388)**

_Part 1_

It took her a while to notice that her phone was ringing, and in fact had been for quite some time. She had forgotten to turn off the silent mode, so only the buzzing became audible. As soon as she picked it up, however, she heard knocking against her apartment’s door.

The name flashed on her screen, but Ursa was already putting the phone down. It took barely three steps to cross her tiny quarters, so she was left standing there for a little while, bracing herself before she unlocked it.

In the darkness, she could just about make out Ozai leaning against the doorframe. That alone was alarming; the man was always particular about appearances, to the point of obsession.

“What happened?” she asked instead of something more appropriate, like _Hello_. Or: _What the hell are you doing here, we haven’t spoken in two weeks._

“Can I come in?” he asked.

He held himself so stiffly, arm curled around his midsection. She stepped aside, noting the awkward way his suit jacket had been draped over his shoulders, and his laboured breathing.

“Are you alright?”

It slipped her lips before she could stop it. She had to remind herself that she did not care for him, not anymore. Even on the best of days, Ozai was a bit of a nightmare to deal with. His arrogance, his possessiveness, his casual disregard for others; but the long disappearances, coupled with his unwillingness to talk about what he did in that time, destroyed whatever was left of their relationship.

As if on cue, that was one of the looks she hated the most: one eyebrow raised, mouth turned into an arrogant smirk. The expression exuded contempt.

“Yes. Obviously.”

With a grunt, he sat down on her couch. She would have been mad that he hadn’t even asked for permission, but something else caught her attention: darker stain on his grey shirt.

“Fuck, Ozai,” Ursa said. “Are you injured?”

He did not reply. Ursa dropped to her knees and shoved away his jacket, her fingers trembling. The expensive material was soaked with sweat, dark, sticky when she pressed down—

Ozai let out a hiss of breath. Ursa stared up at him with growing horror, his handsome face uncharacteristically pale.

There was a lot more blood than she anticipated. His hand staunched the worst of it, and he fought her when she tried to judge the extent of his injury. His ribcage heaved with every breath, its movement causing obvious pain.

“I need to lie low for a while,” Ozai said, tipping his head back. She stared at the rivulet of sweat running down his temple.

“Are you insane?” she asked, climbing up to her feet. “We need to call an ambulance—”

“No,” his hand locked around her wrist, keeping her close. “You cannot do that.”

“I am not waiting for you to bleed out on my couch,” she said, sharply.

“I am not going to bleed out,” he said. “You have bandages, don’t you?”

“This is not—” she paused, trying to get her voice under control. Ozai’s golden eyes were growing misty, his attention slipping away from her. He had never been so unfocused. “Ozai, please—”

A faint smile curved his lips, terrifying in its vulnerability. She touched his hand, felt it loosen, no longer effective in staunching the flow of blood.

“No hospitals,” Ozai said, unnaturally long pauses dotting his speech. “Too many eyes around—I cannot—”

“I’m calling an ambulance,” she told him. “No, shut up!” she said as he frowned, displeased. Always, always displeased whenever she refused to do exactly as he asked. “There is nothing I can do for you,” she said, keeping her voice as gentle, as persuasive, as she could. “You need medical help. Or you will die.”

Her breath caught at the last word, mind reeling when she realized the truth of what she had just said. There was a faint disconnect between the train of her thoughts and the actions her body took, moving in a haze, reaching for her phone.

She grasped Ozai’s hand, feeling for the beat of his pulse. It was there, quick, faint – the heart frantic to keep the blood where the body most needed it. Ozai’s hand was limp, cold, fingers twitching beneath her touch; their remarkable strength gone.

“If they ask questions,” he said, quiet, “if they ask anything—lie. Tell them we were together. Tell them the robber shot me, and you took me home—”

She nearly dropped the phone. Shot, of course he got shot. He was a black belt in kung fu, the odds of him losing a hand-to-hand fight were slim – unless he was outnumbered.

A few deep breaths; she tried to focus again, her phone’s glowing screen swimming before her eyes. She dialled the emergency number automatically, taken aback by how calmly she answered the dispositor’s questions.

Before the EMTs arrived, Ozai was unconscious. He did not protest when they carried him down the stairs; he did not protest when she went with them.

***

It was nearing three a.m. Ursa blinked, eyes blurry from lack of sleep, and tried to focus on her coffee. According to the doctors, Ozai was still alive. They refused to let her see him, but she caught a glimpse when they wheeled him out of the operating room, various fluids and cables hooked up to his unconscious body.

He would hate it. Oh, how he would hate it, if he could only see himself manhandled by a bunch of strangers. Ursa took an odd, exhaustion-fuelled pleasure in picturing his outrage. Surely it was better than picturing him dead.

She must have dozed off on the little plastic chair. When she awoke, her neck ached with discomfort. For a second or two, she couldn’t make sense of her surroundings.

Then she saw them. Down the hospital corridor, a group of men in black suits. Maybe it was a fragment of her dream, out-of-place in the deserted building – maybe –

Sleep left as quickly as it had come. She was climbing to her feet, soundless, pushing through doors and ignoring an outraged nurse that tried to stop her.

There Ozai was. Alive, probably. The machine beeped, drawing a squiggly line that might have been his heartbeat. As ever, he looked more peaceful when deeply asleep, the lines of his face eased. Handsome, more than ever. She had told him so once, in a fit of drunken honesty, and regretted it ever since. He needed no more fuel for his arrogance.

When the men in suits entered, she refused to move. The nurses were escorted out, the conversation too low for Ursa to catch it.

She wished she knew who they were. She wished she knew what it was that Ozai _did_. Secretive to the point of paranoia, he never told her the details of his family business.

She should have pressed harder. She should have—

Well, it was too late for regrets.

***

_Part 2_

Pain awoke him. Not surprising; the memory of a bullet biting into his flesh was vivid, and one that he wasn’t likely to forget in a hurry.

Other sensations registered. Red walls, golden flames; father’s house. His own bed. And the sun, low in the sky, near to setting. Had it been a day? More than a day?

Ozai tried to sit and then fell back, promptly, pain shooting through his side. Soft pillows caught him, easy. His head swam, but the dizziness subsided over time.

With every deep breath, details of last night crystalized. His meeting with Zhao; Long Feng and his men, in their underground base, lit with sickly-green light; the ensuing gun fight. Definitely one of his more reckless ventures. The wound in his side was a testament to that.

They separated, afterwards, to confuse the Dai Li chasing them. And he went—

This time, he grit his teeth through the pain and made it out of the bed, bracing against its frame until his head adjusted to the upright position. He dressed quickly, buttons refusing to cooperate with his stiff fingers.

The mirror showed a ghastly image: pale skin, bags under his eyes, hair in disarray. Cursing under his breath, Ozai tried to comb his hair at least. He was still a mess, unbecoming of his station. But it would have to do.

The corridors were mostly deserted. He made his way quickly, stopping when he came face to face with his father’s guardsmen.

“I need to speak with the Fire Lord,” he said.

“He’s expecting you,” came the reply. Ozai’s heart sank.

The entire council had gathered in what he would always refer to as the throne room. Fire lit the length of it, hot and painfully bright. He ignored the men staring at him and walked forward, posture perfect.

Azulon sat in his decorated chair, claw-like hands propping up his chin. Ozai bowed.

Public punishment was not Azulon’s style. Ozai felt an old, familiar surge of dread when his father dismissed most of the men, and tried his best not to show it.

“You are aware,” the Fire Lord spoke. “That the Dai Li are Iroh’s responsibility.”

“Yes,” Ozai said.

“And that any contact with them requires his approval.”

“Yes.”

“And that, in confronting Long Feng, you have disobeyed a direct order.”

“Yes.”

Iroh sat stone-faced on Azulon’s right hand side. The continued existence of the Dai Li was his greatest failure, but somehow their father neglected to mention that. No, all that mattered was Ozai’s own initiative not working out as well as he planned – had he stayed put, drinking tea and smoking pot like his older brother, he wouldn’t be in this position.

Although quite possibly he would be getting punished for indolence. Out of the two, he would rather be where he was.

Azulon’s golden eyes narrowed. “Have you nothing to say?”

“I acted in what I believed to be our best interests,” Ozai said, with little conviction. His resolve was waning. “Father. There was a woman—”

Through the haze of pain and blood-loss, he remembered her. Ursa felt safe. That shameful weakness was enough to have him stagger to her apartment and place himself in her care. He remembered her voice, her warm hand slipping through his grasp as he lost consciousness. Her amber eyes when she looked at him.

What happened later, he did not know.

“Yes. There was.”

Words died on the tip of his tongue. He stared, every emotion laid bare, his chest curiously hollow.

Iroh shot him a pitying look. “Father, if I may—”

When he signalled the guards, Ozai could only watch them leave and then re-enter, the events playing before his eyes with an oddly unreal edge to them.

She was alive. Still, despite everything, Ursa was alive. They led her in, wrists bound, pale-faced, but upright and breathing and _alive_. Her eyes found Ozai’s, full of questions that he was unable to answer.

“I wonder,” Azulon said. “You sabotage your brother’s dealing the Dai Li. You pointlessly endanger the lives of our men. What would it take for you to learn that your actions have consequences?”

“Father,” Ozai said. “I will accept whatever punishment you deem appropriate—”

“I know you will,” Azulon said.

They forced her down to her knees, and she went. She was still wearing the same clothes he saw her in, a dark red blouse and black slacks, her hair done up in a casual knot. Two weeks he had avoided her calls, caught up in preparations for the meeting. There would be too much to explain, Ursa was safer far away from all of this, far away from this room. Safe; but not anymore.

“You have said,” Azulon addressed Ursa now. “That you were with my son when he got shot. Is that so?”

In a quiet, soft voice, Ursa replied: “Yes.”

Azulon made another sharp little gesture. Ozai heard the clinking of metal when one of the men retrieved a long, iron handle, and placed its tip in the fire.

“You are lying,” Azulon said. “If there is one thing I will not allow in this room, it is being lied to.”

Her eyes were drawn to the fire, the metal burning hotter and hotter.

“She lied because I instructed her to,” Ozai said. “She does not know our rules. Her only crime was loyalty to me.”

“An interesting choice,” Azulon said with obvious disdain.

At the tip of the handle was a metal brand, styled into a flame. In the darkened room, it glowed yellow and red, radiating heat when they pulled it out. Branding was an old tradition – the oldest, the simplest of them all. _Trial by fire_.

Ursa’s mask was slipping, eyes wide with fear. She was unable to look away from the burning flame, and neither was Ozai.

He stood, silent and motionless, when they approached him to offer him the brand, handle-first. The heat was familiar, and the ritual was familiar. His movements felt scripted.

He wished she wouldn’t look at him. He wished he could forget the sight of her face, the terror in her eyes. He wished she hadn’t been wearing the gold necklace he had given her for her birthday. He wished she hadn’t mouthed his name, her tone pleading. He wished she wouldn’t scream.

***

After the meeting, Ozai staggered back to his room, exhaustion seeping through his bones. The pain in his side had faded into a dull ache. Iroh had laid out a plan to salvage their dealings with the Dai Li. All in all, his mistake hadn’t been as dire as he had feared.

The bathroom door was closed but not locked. He heard the sound of running water, and paused with his palm curled around the handle. Then he pushed it open.

Ursa was sitting on the floor in her underwear, holding the shower head against her shoulder. Ice-cold water washed over the blisters covering her skin, a bright-red flame, right over her heart. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she wasn’t crying any more.

She would understand. Of course she would. Ozai had no choice. Had he refused, she would suffer a much worse fate. This was nothing; over time it would fade, leaving only a scar behind. Or perhaps not even that.

He had to. This was his punishment, father wouldn’t let him walk away from it. And Ursa would be fine, and she would understand—

“Ozai,” she said in a flat, detached voice.

She wouldn’t look at him. He couldn’t explain when she set her mind not to listen, but he _had to_. If only she would listen—

“Don’t come near me again.”


	2. Part 1: Divorce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ozai takes care of the kids for a weekend.

“Dad!”

Before Ozai had the chance to step back, Zuko and Azula came running. They crashed into his midsection at full speed, knocking the air out of his lungs. Their arms were wrapped around his waist, and Ozai found himself unable to move. This was—odd. The children were never so open with their emotions. A little awkwardly, he patted the two dark-haired heads, and tried not to feel like a fool for doing so.

When he raised his eyes, Ursa was just about to climb the stairs. She moved with some difficulty, carrying a suitcase and with two backpacks slung over her shoulders. Very deliberately, she kept her eyes on the floor as she walked towards them.

Zuko peeled himself from Ozai’s side and walked towards her, solemn and shy as ever.

“Wait, Mum, I’ll help you!”

Ursa offered him a rare smile, sweet and kind, and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

“Thank you, dear,” she said.

Azula was still glued to Ozai’s waist. The girl’s shoulders were trembling, and she gripped him with a strength that was unusual for a child her size, with her face buried in Ozai’s shirt.

Zuko struggled to drag the suitcase behind him, it being more than half his height. His firstborn was stubborn, though. Determination to work through his failures was something he had the chance to practice often.

They stood so close now, at arm’s length, Ursa’s face carefully wiped of all emotion. He could see the precise way she had applied her make-up, accentuating her features, adding a reddish gleam to her full lips. It was useless to search her amber eyes for any trace of guilt or remorse. His wife – ex-wife, he should say – was a flawless porcelain mask over a cold, calculating core. He knew first-hand that any vulnerability she displayed was a well-crafted illusion.

What was there to say, really? Ursa’s teeth nipped at her lower lip, a rare gesture of discomfort, before she had the bland smile back on her face.

“I will pick them up Sunday evening,” she said, the sound of her voice awakening something in Ozai’s memories that he had hoped would stay buried.

Azula finally managed to uncurl from Ozai’s side, the expression on her face a passable imitation of her mother’s indifference.

“Bye, mum,” she said.

Ursa’s eyes narrowed, smile melting into something more candid. “Oh, come here.”

She knelt down on Ozai’s – their – porch, and opened her arms. Both children hugged her enthusiastically, and she kissed the crown of their heads, one after the other.

“Remember to do your homework tonight,” she said, voice stern. “Your father will drive you to practice. If anything happens, call immediately. No staying up past bedtime – and no sweets past dinnertime. Are we clear?”

“Yes, mum,” they said in unison.

“I love you,” Ursa said, holding them a little tighter. Then she stood up and let them slide free from her overprotective embrace, only to have them run the few short steps towards Ozai.

He was left with his children clutching his hands, while his ex-wife regarded him with some apprehension.

“Have a nice weekend,” she said in the end, smoothing down her perfectly smooth dress.

“Good bye,” Ozai said, and firmly shut the door in her face.

***

It was an odd thing to have the children in the house again. He had grown used to the peaceful silence, everything in its proper place. But with them, order was a thing of the past. Footsteps thudded down the stairs seemingly every five minutes, and terrible music came blasting from the speakers.

Ozai walked his own floors in a daze. They were just two small kids, how hard could it be to keep track of them? Impossible, was the answer.

He hid—no, he _retreated_ to his study, to sip his afternoon espresso in peace. But after a few minutes of blessed silence, he heard urgent voices whispering behind the closed door, followed by ungentle scuffling.

Ozai sighed. “Come in.”

The door cracked open. Zuko’s face came peeking through the narrow gap, golden eyes sweeping over the room. Azula stood right on his heels, climbing onto her toes to see over his shoulder.

The children were not permitted inside the study. Ozai insisted, and Ursa had enforced his order. It was likely they did not even know what the room looked like, making their curiosity understandable. That said, there wasn’t much in here that could hold their attention: interior décor was done to his tastes, in black and deep reds with the occasional gold accent, lacking Ursa’s softer touch. And it was always, always scrupulously clean.

Zuko and Azula looked even smaller as they made their way through, uncertain.

“Shouldn’t you be doing homework?” Ozai asked. Ursa had mentioned that, hadn’t she?

“I’m done already. It was easy. But Zuko struggled with his,” Azula said with an angelic smile.

“Did not!” the tip of the boy’s ears went red. “And your homework is stupid!”

“I can do yours if you’d like,” Azula smirked.

“I don’t need you to do my homework!”

“You sure? Mum isn’t here to help you…”

They looked dangerously close to starting a fight.

“Cease this behaviour immediately,” Ozai said.

They stopped, two pair of golden eyes fixing on him expectantly. It was a strange sensation. Not entirely comfortable, if he was being honest. He wasn’t sure what the children wanted from him. Was it food? Entertainment? If Ursa had been here, she’d make sure they weren’t wanting for either, but he would rather set his phone on fire than call his ex-wife right now.

“Dad? Can we watch a movie?” Zuko asked, taking a bold step forward. His face was Ozai’s, but his hopeful expression was entirely Ursa.

“The TV is in the living room,” Ozai said. Had they forgotten already? It had been, how long – two months, maybe three, since Ursa took the kids and moved out. Losing track of that time wasn’t easy, but Ozai was committed.

“Oh,” Zuko worried his lower lip between his teeth. “No, I meant… together. Do you want to watch a movie with us?”

“I think our tastes run a little differently,” Ozai said. Kids watched loud, colourful, silly things. He had no time for such nonsense.

“You can pick a movie, Dad,” Azula said, folding her hands behind her back, a picture of innocence. “I’m sure Zuko will be able to keep up. Somehow.”

“Will you stop that!” Zuko said.

This idea made very little sense to him. No matter the choice, one of the interested parties was going to ultimately waste their time. But the children looked so eager, their faces reminiscent of Ursa at her most persuasive. Ozai always found it difficult to deny the woman anything she had asked for in that tone of voice. It seemed that power was hereditary.

“Very well,” Ozai said.

They lit up, Zuko bouncing slightly on the heel of his feet. Ozai was just about to stand up when he felt Azula tugging at one of his arms, and Zuko at the other.

“What do you wanna see, Dad? Have you watched the latest Star Wars? We went to the movies with Mum—”

“I didn’t have the time,” Ozai said.

What they lacked in strength, they made up for with sheer tenacity. Ozai was being half-dragged and half-led to his own living room’s couch, the golden-eyed little devils snuggling up to him before he had a chance to protest.

He only half payed attention to what was happening on the screen. The set-up was surprisingly comfortable – even with the children’s constant fidgeting, he found his mind drifting.

It was easy, so easy to believe that Ursa would walk in at any moment; to usher the kids to bed, to bring him tea and a blanket for herself that she hid during the day because it upset the aesthetic of the living room. Her red silk bathrobe was still stuffed in the box upstairs, along with most of her personal belongings. Ozai had little use for them now, so they were left to gather dust in the attic.

Maybe eventually they would stop smelling like his wife.


	3. Part 2: Cheating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ozai gets upset, handles it poorly.

He came to with an undignified snort and a mouthful of his own hair. Thankfully, the room was dark, and the kids were glued to the TV screen, sharing a tub of ice-cream between them.

“You should be asleep,” Ozai said. Then: “No sweets past dinnertime.”

“It’s not past dinnertime if we didn’t have dinner,” Azula said, while Zuko shoved a spoonful of ice-cream into his mouth.

“Mum wouldn’t let us,” he said, frowning at the box.

“I am not letting you, either,” Ozai said.

They surrendered the ice-cream, looking vaguely guilty. To be quite honest Ozai was surprised he even had ice-cream, it exceeding all of his dietary restrictions. But maybe it was something Ursa had bought before she left. She was stress-eating in the months leading up to the divorce, and then spent hours taking out all the extra calories in their home gym.

Zuko and Azula were watching him again, the TV forgotten. He couldn’t even make sense of the images flashing on the screen, other than that prolonged exposure to that level of stupidity would probably give him a headache.

He switched it off, the silence sudden and awkward.

“Go to sleep. You have everything you need, don’t you?”

The maid had made up their old beds with fresh sheets. As for pyjamas and toiletries, no doubt Ursa had packed some. Enough to last them a month, probably.

Miraculously, they weren’t tired yet. Bathing and brushing their teeth was a long, noisy affair, and Ozai had to force himself to stay awake long enough to see them off to bed. It was past eleven. He tried to remember at what time Ursa usually sent them to sleep. Sometimes they were in bed before he even got back from work. Sometimes they stayed up to say goodnight, already bathed and in their pyjamas. It all seemed easier, when Ursa was here to take care of them.

Right now, Zuko was red-faced again, toothpaste smeared over his chin.

“You did not!”

“Come on Zuzu, it’s a cute picture. I sent it to Mum,” Azula waved her phone before his eyes, and then snatched it away before he could grab it.

“What picture?” Ozai asked, vaguely curious.

It was himself and Zuko. He did not remember that moment – not surprising, considering he was fast asleep. Zuko lie tucked against his side, licking ice-cream off his messy fingers.

“She will know we ate ice-cream!”

“She will know _you_ ate ice-cream.”

“It was your idea!”

“You were hungry.”

“So were you!”

Their chatter was easy to tune out, so long as they weren’t actually fighting. And the picture was—sweet. Domestic, even. He hadn’t quite meant for Ursa to see that.

“Azula.”

“Yes, Dad?”

“Don’t share pictures of me without obtaining permission first.”

Zuko shrugged. “It’s just Mum.”

“This isn’t relevant.”

He wondered what else Azula had photographed. He swiped left – some toys, Zuko falling down on the second story landing – and behind that, there was Ursa.

She wasn’t alone.

“Who is that?” Ozai asked.

Something in his voice made the children pause and exchange worried glances. Ozai stared down at them, unable to conceal his impatience.

“Answer me,” he said.

“That’s Mum’s friend,” Zuko said, quick. “His name’s Ikem. He’s real nice.”

“He and Mum went to the seaside together,” Azula said, shrugging. “We wanted you to go too, but Mum said you wouldn’t want to. Can we go in the summer, though? To Ember Island—”

The man was younger than Ozai, skin tanned a deep bronze. He had an expressive face, and dull brown eyes. He had nothing on Ursa’s striking beauty, and yet he had an arm slung around her shoulders as if he had any right to—

“Go to sleep,” Ozai said, and turned on his heel.

***

The box of ice-cream was still on the kitchen counter, slowly melting. Ozai picked up a spoon and stirred the brownish sludge before giving it an experimental lick.

It was smooth, creamy and sweet, with a spicy aftertaste that sparked in his mouth. Chocolate chili – Ursa’s favourite.

Three scoops later, Ozai became aware of what he was doing. The sludge looked decidedly unattractive and its nutritional value was somewhere in the negatives, and yet eating it made his mood lift considerably.

So Ursa was spending the weekend with another man. That cheating, lying whore—

He set the spoon down, spraying half-melted ice-cream on the pristine counters. Fittingly, his damn wife was responsible for the only spot of mess in his organized life. Why didn’t she take it with her, when she disappeared?

And yet her presence lingered, tormenting him with remainders of an easier, happier life. They made love once in this very kitchen, late in the night and tipsy from too much wine. It was unhygienic and uncomfortable, and yet Ozai couldn’t care enough to stop, not when she wrapped her legs around his hips and begged him to fuck her harder.

For such a prim, proper woman, Ursa had no inhibitions when they were alone. Her desires ran wild, untamed. There was something unbelievably alluring about the way she whispered them into his ear, nails biting into his skin with painful urgency.

But that was a distant memory. He was doing himself no favours by clinging to it.

Upstairs was dark and quiet. The children must have been frightened of him. He had little patience, true, but their mother’s lewd conduct was no fault of theirs.

Ozai paused with a hand on the handle to Azula’s room, and then went noiselessly inside. The girl was asleep, or at least pretending to be. Her face was so similar to Ursa’s – the resemblance was striking, and would only grow with age. A little awkwardly, he brushed damp hair from Azula’s forehead and kissed her goodnight. Then he went into Zuko’s room and paused at the doorstep.

“’Night, Dad,” Zuko mumbled sleepily.

“Goodnight,” Ozai said.

***

Sleep eluded him. It became obvious the moment his head hit the pillow. His mind was running itself into high gear, reminiscing all the high and low points of their marriage. A pointless exercise, really.

Ozai didn’t drink, on principle. The occasional glass of wine was concession enough. Alcohol dulled his senses and weakened his body, and he had no desire to feed poison into his system. But right now, after two hours of tossing and turning in his wide, empty bed, he felt the abrupt need to do _anything_ to quiet the noise in his head.

They had kept a well-stocked bar for Ursa’s dinner parties. Ozai selected a bottle of whiskey at random and took an experimental swig.

The taste was vile, and it took more than he expected to really set his head spinning. Apparently it also robbed him of any sense of shame, because he found himself climbing the stairs to the attic, where they kept the old family albums – just for the one, tangible evidence that the life he remembered wasn’t a fantasy of his overworked brain.

There were pictures of Ursa, young and lovely, with a toddler in her arms, with both kids clutching her hands in their tiny fists. Camera didn’t do justice to her soft smile, or the look in her eyes.

He found their wedding album. It was buried deep, somewhere neither of them would have to look at it. The affair was an extravagant one, such as only Ozai’s father could afford. But they were there, together, seemingly lost to the entire world. Watching them was like watching a pair of strangers, painfully naïve of what was to come.

He imagined the other man, this _Ikem_ , holding Ursa, kissing her, sleeping beside her. His thoughts took a dark, violent turn, and he slammed the album shut.

***

Sore muscles and pounding headache added an extra level of challenge to his morning routine. Nevertheless, Ozai was glad to have it over and done with, and then to wash the sweat off his skin.

The children were in the kitchen, snooping through the cupboards.

“Hi, Dad!” they said.

“Hi.”

He started on his breakfast protein shake, aware of two pair of eyes watching him curiously.

“Uh, are we going to eat that?” Zuko asked dubiously.

“It’s fool of nutrients,” Ozai said, glaring at his son.

“Yuck,” Azula said, trying a spoonful. Then she smiled, a veritable angel. “That’s okay, Dad. Mum can’t cook either.”

Ozai took a deep, steadying breath. “There’s cereal in the cupboard.”

The kids had practice today—did they not? Azula excelled at all things, although particularly in solitary sports or in a leadership position. Working with her teammates was a unique hurdle Ursa liked to stress over. Zuko was more mellow, less singularly talented, but praised for the ability to put aside his own pride for the sake of his team. That much Ozai knew—but what, exactly, did they have on Saturdays? There were so many extracurricular activities to keep track of. And it was Ursa’s job to know where the kids should be at all times.

She was everywhere today. He couldn’t force the images out of his head: not of her favourite spot by the garden pond, or her sleeping form beneath the covers of their bed, stepping naked out of the shower with her long, silky black hair cast over her shoulder—or her face. Her beautiful, perfect face—

He had to get away.

“Zuko, Azula,” Ozai said. “I need to go to work today. It’s an emergency.”

He tried not to look at the disappointment in their small faces as he fled the house.

***

Hours later, Ozai forced himself to look up from the draft of the document to search for his ringing phone. He normally switched the damn thing off, but he forgot when he came in the office today, the guards and the receptionist not even blinking when he arrived on a Saturday morning.

Ursa’s name flashed on her screen, as well as an old picture of her. Ozai answered without thinking.

“Where the fuck are you?” her voice was pitched low, dangerous. Then she drew in a long breath. “Look. I don’t even care. I’m coming in to take the kids. Good bye, Ozai.”

She hung up before he had a chance to react.

Ozai was out of his chair and down in the parking lot before his brain caught up to the frantic pace his body had set. He was speeding past the minimal weekend traffic to their neighbourhood. She would be there—

When he arrived, Ursa was dragging the children’s suitcase down the stairs. Zuko and Azula were behind her, eyes widening when they saw Ozai.

“Dad!”

Ursa stood very still, her back turned to him.

“Kids, go to your room,” she said, voice tense with barely-concealed fury.

She waited until the door had slammed shut before turning. Rage burned in her amber eyes, her words deathly quiet.

“One day. I leave them with you for one day, and you disappear.”

“Work emergency,” Ozai lied smoothly.

“Oh, but of course. It’s always work, isn’t it? That’s the one important thing.”

Ozai took a step forward, hand curling around the stair balustrade until his knuckles turned white.

“You don’t want me to work,” he hissed. “But you _want_ your exotic vacation, and your shoes, and your fancy dresses. You _want_ your children to be educated—”

“Don’t act like they have anything to do with it!” she said, taking a step down the stairs. She stood above him for once, more confident for the advantage. “You don’t care about their education. You don’t care about them at all, you just felt that wife and children is something you ought to have to be the man you feel you ought to be—”

Ozai laughed in her face.

“And yet,” he said. “And yet I work every day to make sure they will have a future. You, meanwhile, abscond with your paramour for a lovely romantic weekend.” He relished the look on her face, all the blood draining from her already pale skin. “Is that not why you left them here, Ursa? Be honest with me if you’re not going to be honest with yourself.”

“They wanted to spend time with you,” she said, eyes shutting briefly. “They miss you. You don’t call. You don’t—you don’t speak to them at all.”

A few slow, measured steps up, and they were finally eye to eye. She looked well-rested, actually well-rested, and not just adept at painting over the bags under her eyes. She was dressed, casually, the faint scent of another man’s cologne clinging to her skin. From so close, he could see the way light refracted off her amber eyes, the faint sheen of tears making them glossy.

“Is that not what you wanted?” he asked.

“Do you truly think I wanted it to end like this?” she said bitterly.

“With me paying your bills and you in another man’s bed? Yes.”

She came dangerously close to slapping him. Ozai could almost taste the violence they both craved, brutal and visceral and so much better than the heavy, sullen silence that pervaded the last months of their marriage. All the pain brought to the surface, easily understood, and fading over time.

But she didn’t slap him. He didn’t hit her, either, even though he wanted to.

“I can’t do this right now,” she said. “You signed the papers—”

“And you have given me your word,” Ozai said. “That you would remain faithful. If your word isn’t worth anything, why should mine be?”

“We are divorced, Ozai!” she said, louder. “That’s what the papers _mean_. Why don’t you ever listen to me—”

“Start crying now, why don’t you,” Ozai said, taking a step back. Her shoulders trembled, her hands were pressed to her lips, and tears gathered at the corner of her eyes. “Playing the victim always worked wonders.”

“I’m not—” she began. “Ozai. Please. Listen—”

“Next time you need a babysitter, don’t come to me,” Ozai said.

“Ozai—”

The pleading tone of her voice nearly undid him. She had taken everything from him, destroyed every wall, transformed his thoughts; she had inserted herself into every aspect of his life until he no longer knew how to live without her. And now she was gone, just like that. Now she loved another, so easily, as if the life they shared together didn’t matter to her at all.

He became aware of an intense, attentive silence. Zuko and Azula were at the top landing, staring at their parents from behind the balustrade. Ursa choked on her tears when she saw them.

The woman was no longer his wife. Everyone had accepted it, except for Ozai himself. But if it was easy for Ursa, it would be easy for him, too.

“Get out of my house,” Ozai said. “All three of you.”


	4. Part 3: Dead Ursa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years later, and they have managed to work out some kind of an understanding. Up until a point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: character death, as per the prompt.

_Three years later._

She opened the door for him, eyebrows curved in mild surprise.

“Ozai?”

“Ursa,” he said. Smirking, he added, “You look lovely.”

A faint blush coloured her cheeks. She was wearing an elegant dress and high heels, far too fancy for a night alone at home. Her hair was in a state of mild disarray, pinned on one side and flowing freely on the other.

“Is it important?” she asked, no bite to her tone. When Ozai nodded in affirmation, she sighed and stepped aside to let him into her home.

He watched her retreating form as she disappeared to make tea in the kitchen. The apartment was small but stylish, Ursa’s hand obvious in the choice of décor, with an occasional concession made for the sake of the kids. It added a warm, lived-in look that Ozai’s pristine house lacked.

He toed off his shoes and followed her. Ursa cast him a questioning look over her shoulder as he entered the kitchen.

“Congratulations,” she said, tired but sincere. “On the promotion. You must be ecstatic.”

“Congratulations,” Ozai replied. “On the wedding.”

Ursa remained silent, averting her gaze as she served them both tea.

“I’m trying out outfits,” she said after a pause, smoothing her dress. “Hairdos. Makeup. That sort of thing.”

“The dress is lovely,” Ozai sipped his tea. “Although I prefer the one you wore to our wedding.”

With utmost delicacy, she picked up her own tea. Her lipstick gleamed red, leaving a clear imprint of her lips on the rim of her cup. A small, ugly voice in Ozai’s head relished her obvious discomfort, the melancholy look in her eyes.

“Why did you come here?” she asked.

Over the past three years, they would meet from time to time. On such occasions when it was unavoidable, like the kid’s graduation, or Azulon’s funeral. Rarer still on less neutral ground, in an attempt at communicating; forging some kind of peace to ease the hurt between them. He faced their meetings with a mixture of anticipation and dread, each time slipping a little further into the fantasy of having her back, even if such fantasies came to an inevitable, abrupt end.

“It’s in three weeks, isn’t it?” he asked instead of answering.

“Yes.” Ursa set down her cup with a sharp clink. “Ozai. Please don’t come to the wedding.”

She was watching him closely, her amber eyes oddly sympathetic.

“I wasn’t planning to,” Ozai said.

Ursa looked about ready to take his hand, offering silent, physical comfort. This was a habit of hers that she had trouble letting go of. Neither of them learned to be particularly open with their feelings, but her simple gestures meant more than he knew how to express.

The moment passed. Ursa cleared her throat.

“Azula’s match is coming soon,” she said, voice back to its usual mild tone.

“I know,” Ozai said.

In truth, Azula spoke of little else lately. Her excitement was subdued but very obvious, even over the phone. Most of the meagre parenting he was capable of happened over the phone; this was a distant, if ever-present ache on his conscience. With every passing year, his children grew older, more independent. He could see both himself and Ursa in them, an odd blend of their individual strengths and weaknesses. They would no longer blandly obey their parents, testing their boundaries, testing themselves. The experience was challenging, especially when his son was concerned, but more rewarding for it.

“Will you go? I think she’d prefer if you were there, and not me.” Ursa’s smile turned a little wistful.

“And why is that?” Ozai asked.

“Well,” Ursa said. “She never forgave me for leaving you. Besides, she’s a deeply insecure growing girl, and you give her a, shall we say, strong illusion of strength.”

Ozai couldn’t help a bitter laugh.

The subject of Zuko hung between them, untouched. Ozai had no desire to fight again, not today, so he let it slide.

Ursa raised her hands and unpinned her hair, the movement of her long fingers sure and elegant. Black locks came tumbling down her back and she brushed them away as her thoughts drifted. Ozai could discern the direction they took, questioning his presence here, her upcoming wedding, their children.

“Zuko and Azula are at Mai’s?” Ozai asked.

“Yes. For a sleepover. I think there’s a new videogame they were dying to play,” Ursa said.

Ozai sipped his tea.

After a long silence, Ursa’s amber eyes focused on him.

“Why are you here, Ozai?” her voice was soft, quiet. He could barely catch the words, the length of the kitchen table separating them.

“I don’t know,” he said. Then he asked another question, the one that’s been weighing on his mind for weeks now. “Are you planning to have more children?”

She was young enough for it, not yet thirty five. With each year her beauty seemed to grow, more refined and more self-aware. He held her gaze, cataloguing the quiet sorrow that transformed her features.

“Why are you asking me this? You won’t like the answer,” she said.

“Why not?”

Her chest rose with each breath, a faint gleam to her eyes; she was on the verge of tears. “Ozai—”

“Don’t answer, then,” Ozai said. He pushed away his cup of tea and walked to the living room. The windows were cracked open, letting in cool night air that washed pleasantly over his heated skin.

Her footsteps sounded soft on the wooden floor, the high-heels she matched to her wedding dress being put aside. Without the added height, the crown of her head barely came up to his chin.

“Are you happy?” he asked, with all the care of a masochist dragging a blade across their own skin.

She stared at him blankly.

“I don’t know,” she said in a flat, detached voice. “I don’t know. I think I can be. I—” she drew in a breath, genuine emotion creeping into her tone. “He loves me. I come home, and I don’t have to wonder whether he loves me or not. I don’t have to wonder if I’m disturbing when I call, or if he will come back from work, or—” tears were streaming down her cheeks, voice breaking. “We messed it up, Ozai. We stepped into it blindly, expecting too much from ourselves and each other—”

Against his best judgement, he stepped forward and circled his arms around her trembling shoulders. In that moment she went very still, but he felt the tension bleed out of her, her forehead coming to rest on his shoulder. The scent of her perfume was pervasive, familiar, tugging at the threads of his sanity.

“I love him,” she said, on the very edge of audibility. “I do. It doesn’t hurt as much as loving you did.”

She chose easy. She chose happiness. Ozai supposed he couldn’t blame her for that.

He thought of the duty to his family, their reputation, their well-being; his own sense of honour. To abandon one’s responsibilities for a selfish purpose was unthinkable. What Ursa did stood against everything he had been taught to believe – and yet.

Ursa’s cheek fit neatly into his palm, her skin soft and warm. Her eyes widened in confusion when he tilted her face back to look at her, drinking in the sight of his wife.

“Don’t do this to us,” she said, her breath brushing the base of his thumb as he caressed her cheekbone. The movement was instinctive, out of his control.

“I won’t bother you again,” he said. “Just—let me. This once.”

In all the years, he had never sunk to begging. Perhaps he should have had. Perhaps he should have set aside his pride, abandon all inhibitions, and lay his soul bare. Maybe that would be the reassurance she needed to remain by his side.

Her lips quivered at the first brush of a kiss, uncertain. He savoured the searing heat, the pinpricks of electricity wherever their skin came in contact. When she remained where she was, in his arms, he leaned forward and captured her mouth in earnest.

Three years, and he almost forgot. It was a heady sensation, indescribable. But now, for the last time, he got to kiss his wife. This time, he would commit every detail to memory.

Ursa came up for air, regret written into every line of her face. There was more he had to say to her, but nothing that could be conveyed over a short phone conversation, or even one of their awkward talks. He needed her by his side, every day of his life. But she chose another.

“I’m sorry,” Ozai said, stroking her cheek, stealing one last fleeting kiss from her unresisting lips.

She let out a short, pained gasp when he drove the knife in her back. In panic, she clung to him, eyes wide and uncomprehending. Ozai held her as her strength waned, his fingers trembling so badly he could barely lock them around the knife’s handle to pull the blade out.

“What have you done?” she asked in dawning horror.

His fingers were slick with Ursa’s blood. Ozai forced his breath to remain even, to keep her from falling. A mixture of emotion welled inside him, of which anger was the quickest, the easiest to comprehend.

“You don’t get to leave me,” he hissed, regretting it instantly when she stumbled forward, legs no longer supporting her weight.

“No,” she said.

“You had to know,” he said. “You had to know I would never let you go—”

“No,” she repeated, voice growing weaker. “No, please, no—”

There was more blood, seeping through the back of her dress. Her breath grew erratic, chest heaving unevenly. He led her to the couch, as gently as he could, her hands locked around the lapels of his suit jacket.

The terror he saw in her face was the worst of it. He hadn’t—he hadn’t meant for her to feel pain. It was cleaner in his mind, and quicker.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Iroh will take care of Zuko and Azula. They will want for nothing. I swear it—I swear they will be—”

She was barely listening to him anymore, face deathly pale, gaze growing misty. Her lips formed words, the quiet _No_ echoing around his head, along with her uneven breaths.

“Ursa,” he whispered.

This was a monstrous thing, an unforgivable thing. But he didn’t want her understanding or her forgiveness; all he wanted was for the pain to end. This way—

She still held his jacket, clinging onto life as blood flooded her lungs.

\--he would be free. Finally—

Ozai forced himself to watch as the light slowly faded in her eyes.


End file.
